Splatterism: The Tragic Recollections of a Minotaur Assailant: An Upbuilding Edifying Discourse

by Christian Winter

  The unicorns ran towards a large rainbow in the middle of the meadow and charged up it, matching manes to the delightful ribbon of vivid colors. The sprawling, sparkling cloud began to take on the color of the stripe that the unicorns were running on, and a second rainbow began to appear over the first. I was riding a pink-maned unicorn galloping on a ribbon of tender pink at the edge of the rainbow, and as the unicorn’s hooves struck the band, a sweet shower of soft pink stars shot up around me; as they fell, it sounded like gentle winter ice hitting glass. Looking over the edge of the rainbow, I could see a splendid, iridescent cloud of shimmering stars slowly falling down below, and all of the centaurs and fairies clapping as they watched, some even dancing in the shower of lavender, aqua, pink, saffron, and yellow star-mist.

  As we neared the top of the rainbow I flung the garland high over my head, then leaned in close to the unicorn and wrapped my hands around its neck. The unicorn’s horn faded from an opaque white to clear diamond, and then to a solid pink glow. Then blocks of color moved up its horn, and traveled up the curves, culminating in bright, rapid staccato flashes of color right when we reached the rainbow’s peak. To my amazement, the unicorns began to sprint across the rainbow’s stripes as we raced down it, bringing our pack from one edge to the other, while other unicorns galloped across our path to the opposite side. I could hear sighs and cheers below as the cloud of opulent colors swirled together above us, producing a delicate tune which faded as the stars slowly cascaded towards the spectators below.

  At the end of the rainbow was a large field of wildflowers full of sweet perfumes. The unicorns slowed to a trot and then stopped to graze among the flowers. Even as they ate, the petals grew back instantly. I slid off the unicorn’s back and fell into the soft bed; I could hear Scammander rolling around and laughing in the flowerbed, totally oblivious and sanguine. Lying on my back in the flowers, I saw him seated on top of a small knoll: the King of the Unicorns. I became even happier, and threw soft petals of pink and blue into the air; as they flickered down around my face, Scammander appeared and pulled me to my feet. He untied the ribbons from my horns and skipped around me, waving them in the air.

  “The King of the Unicorns is coming to see us!” he exclaimed. We laughed and jumped up and down, then turned and looked up the hill.

  He was a heap of marble muscles, the body of a man, the head of a great mare with a brilliant blue mane. He sat on a deep throne, glowering, head held low, with arms stretched out on each arm of the old wooden chair. Carved into the back of the throne was the vale’s motto, “Do not mar a happy day with the clouds of thought.” But it looked like he had been doing a great deal of thinking. Next to the brooding king, was a great blade jutting out of the hill.

  “Still you will not say it? That I am your Quillian?” he shouted. When Scammander said nothing, Quillian snorted. He rose up slowly, pulled the sword out of the hill, and ambulated evenly towards Scammander.

  “You perfidious maverick, my false-sire, who in tenebrous affair, laid with a sensuous sprite in this agreeable vale to the huge disconsoly of planes, plans, and worlds. You would not call me son, so the world calls me bastard.”

  “I am ashamed of that which I bring forth,” said Scammander, letting the little yellow ribbons fall from his hands.

  The breeze tussled Qullian’s azure mane, blowing it about his neck and across his eyes; the long pale blue ribbon tied to his arm waved listlessly in the ubiquitous tedium of the vale. Pale moonfire sporadically whipped up the alabaster blade, causing the runes etched in the middle to flash in a crisp blue light. Scammander didn’t move. In one elegant swing, Quillian spun around and brought the blade up through Scammander’s middle and out of his head; instead of a blood bath, there was a spray of wildflowers and pleasing music.

  I swung one repeater off my shoulder, aimed, and almost shot myself in the stomach. He strode towards me and I tried to uppercut him, but my own fist slammed into my face; I bounced back and shook my head, then leaned in with a deep swing that curled right into my snout—instead of wildflowers, blood roared out of my face. Quillian grabbed the top of my snout with one hand and bludgeoned it with the other. First skin was broken, then fur was peeled off, then bone was busted, then nerves, then there was nothing left. With his left hand he dug into the mush of my face then brought his right fist crashing down between my eyes. I sprawled on the ground as loose limbs and mangled machinations, then balled up and rolled away—the way I wanted to. The rules were changing.

  I fell to the ground to die in a peaceful vale, and stood up to live in a furious storm. The clam blue sky was sable and tumultuous, and the vale was full of cyclones and lighting. Quillian was rushing towards me through the rain as an ebony cloud of crows blasted around him and engulfed me in squawks. I threw my hands around my head and staggered backwards as they pecked my fur off. All small pecks perhaps, but together a great bite. I slipped on grass slick with my own blood and swatted a few birds with wild flailings; they sped off into the night, but as they cleared something darker appeared: Quillian. His azure mane was now purple, and his skin was now a bold ebony. It was hard to see his punches in the dark, but it was easy to feel them.

  I would have stood up on my own, but Quillian picked me up by the throat.

  “In my own vale? You think you can kill me in my own vale?” he said in a searing whisper as the rain poured down around us.

  “Scammander’s,” I gasped. His grip tightened.

  “Can you read the runes of my sword? They say, ‘Kill the Father and be Free.’ An old dragoness left it in my care; now I will rule this vale, not the elves. She said it was crafted the day I was born! How lucky am I!”

  “What’s with all the speeches?” I moaned. I could barely see in the dark and with all the blood in my eyes. What I could see was a serrated obsidian blade with no markings, surrounded by a soft purple glow. “Looks like the gift was cursed.” I slowly lifted my trembling hand up to his throat, but he smacked my hand away and dropped the sword.

  “A nightmare? I’m…a nightmare?” he said, bewildered.

  Before he could begin another turgid speech, I grabbed his wrist with both hands and swung my feet into his chest. He lurched away with a surprised whimper and I fell to the ground once more, gasping for breath in the pouring rain. Every drop stung as it fell on what was left of my face.

  A dismayed centaur galloped over me, then paused and threw both hands on his face. He looked left, then right, started towards the left, then shook his head and fled off in the opposite direction, disappearing behind the sheets of slanting rain.

  I took a deep breath, then rose up and rushed Quillian. He was still wheezing when I grabbed his horn and jerked his head down as my knee rushed up into his face. When I heard the pop and grunt and saw something spill across my thigh, I knew it wasn’t just my blood on the ground anymore. I pushed him away and spat on his face, then began looking for the repeater I dropped. Instead I saw the obsidian sword spinning through the night towards my ankles. I tried to jump over the blade, but it curved up into me at the last second, slicing my outer thigh and sweeping me off my feet.

  My eyes were suddenly filled with phantasmagoria of women and children crying in their sleep, pulling out their hair, and thrashing in their beds while my ears were stinging with their shrieks and screams. I shut my eyes, but the specters and screams only became more vivid. My leg was going numb, and I began to shiver and convulse. A flash of lightning lit up the vale, and I looked down and saw a giant glistening artery spraying and whipping about in the rain, like an angry hydra trying to twist out of my thigh.

  As visions, screams, wind, and rain swirled around my head, I decided that Scammander really was the best friend one could ever have, for he was going to get me killed.

  Quillian again appeared over me as the visions and screams faded, but didn’t disappear. One of his eyes was twitching and watering, and blood and rainwater trailed out of his maw. I raised one arm, using the other to hold my leg: “If you’r
e preparing for another speech, you’re going to have to pick me up. I can’t hear anything from down here with all the women and children screaming in my head.” I was getting colder, and the sound of my teeth chattering was now louder than the screams.

  Quillian again picked me up by the neck, but this time not to talk. His eyes narrowed and he growled as he hurled me down to the ground, hand never releasing my neck. Dirt and grass blades and large chunks of turf heaved out of the earth as my neck rocked forward and twisted against Quillian’s palm, while my tongue and teeth and breath heaved out of my head. Existence became thin, and for a moment I had more in common with what was, than with what is. He crouched on one knee, grabbed the blade, then rose calmly and stood over me, slowly twirling the sword in his hand. Looking down with victorious, lacerating spite, he spoke:

  “I want you to see you, as I saw you when I first looked at you: pathetic.” It was then that I realized I was dealing with a poet.

  “You know what’s worse than being a bastard? Not even being able to write original lines.” I swallowed and gasped and continued. “But I guess that’s why you are a bastard, isn’t it?” He couldn’t take it, but it was all it took for me to take what I needed—his life. I leapt up, dizzy with death, and saw fifty Quillians, so I shot all of them. Slender halcyon arrows darted towards each mare, landing in their bodies. Each Quillian dropped his sword, howled, and arched his back and twisted his fingers with agony. As soon as I landed in the grass I sprang up again, staggered over to Quillian, and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

  This time there was only one horse, but it had fifty arrows in its face.

  “Tell me what you see now.”

  ON THE USE AND ABUSE OF HISTORY FOR THE PURPOSE OF PERSONAL FANTASY

  “What then have been the fruits of the blood of so many millions of men shed in battle, and the sacking of so many cities? Nothing great or considerable.”

  Voltaire

  I collapsed in the soft moss and saw one of the wildflowers, which had Scammander’s face on it; in fact, every flower had Scammander’s face on it. Then I swooned, just like a poet.

  *

  I knew it. I knew I had been captured. I couldn’t feel my arms—I didn’t know if I even still had them. I heard the beating of drums as I slowly struggled back to consciousness. Torture or sacrifice. I stretched my whole face, but still couldn’t open my eyes; it felt like I was lying on a small piece of wood, and little weights were holding my horns down. Sacrifice.

  “Go! Do it before he wakes up!” The drums were getting louder.

  “Yea you can do it! He doesn’t even feel it! Go now!” Torture.

  “Hurry, everything is prepared!” Sacrifice.

  I didn’t have any arms, but I could still kill with my horns. I felt one of the little weights come off my horn and flung myself off the stiff, skinny wooden plank. I crashed onto harder wooden floors, sending dull throbs up my left arm, which I grabbed with my right arm as I winced, and I wished I had neither of them. Glass was shattering all around me, and cold liquid splashed onto my face. There were howls of laughter as I lay on the floor in a puddle of liquid and broken glass. No one bothered to rush me or even kick me they were so sure I had nowhere to run. They were clearly cruel tormentors, so I prepared myself for the worst.

  I pushed myself up, and my eyes were thrown open as torrents of blood pounded into my temples, which almost dropped me right back to the floor. There was more laughter, but the drums were off beat, and I could finally see why. In front of me, seated at the end of a long bar, were three green goblins and Scammander, all with ale mugs, all pounding the counter with their hands and laughing.

  One of them crawled down from his stool and zigzagged his way to me. “I’m Worl, and the other two are my friends, Tworl and Jorl.” He beckoned to the bar. “Sit down, sit down, and listen to our stories,” said the little green goblin. “Take some drink now that you have a face again,” he raised his mug to me with a salute and then took a gulp. “Scammander used his magic to heal you, but these ales are so good they would have done it too.”

  I looked down to see I was standing in a pool of shattered shot glasses and liquors, and thought that maybe I should start goring them all anyways. Stories. So torture it was.

  Worl climbed back on his stool and took a long draught from his mug. “Yes, there was a great celebration that night, since we thought we were going to be ending the war the next day. Dragons were there, lots of happy goblins. The dragons brought us a gift, they said it would show us things, they said it would teach us things. It showed us everything we didn’t want to know,” he started.

  “Yea, we were there, but were drunk and passed out in the crowd,” continued Tworl.

  “Goblins curled up and cried, starved to death. Never spoke again. Most that didn’t die in the city simply wandered away and died alone,” concluded Jorl.

  “He cursed it!” said Worl, pointing at Scammander.

  “Yea, makes you real sad after you see the Truth and look out into Time,” said Tworl. “It’s horrible.”

  Scammander was laughing into his ale mug.

  “Yea, Jorl was sad and cried for days after he looked!” said Worl.

  “He’s sad all the time now,” lamented Tworl.

  “So do you still have it?” I asked, not caring what it was.

  “No, we broke it down into three mugs for our ale. The greatest cups ever built!” Worl leaned on the bar and gazed into his mug. “…But then we lost ‘um.”

  “Yea, to the stupid dorf innkeep!” exclaimed Tworl. He pointed across the bar to the other side where all the spirits were sitting. In front of them were three giant mugs, roughly half the size of each goblin, with their names and portraits carved into the mugs. It must have been considered a feat to merely drink from the cups they were so enormous.

  “He drank us all to sleep,” said Jorl. “That little dorf has the belly of ten ogres! But its ok,” Jorl’s eyes narrowed. “We drink his ales for free when he’s guzzled himself to sleep!”

  “Who did the bulls betray?” asked Worl, leaning into me and looking up with bloodshot eyes.

  “Cows too stupid to scheme,” said Tworl.

  “Too honorable,” I said. “Is that what you all have been talking about, the good old days?” I had been thinking about having a talk with Scammander about magic.

  Worl nodded. “You calm on the surface, but hateful below. We know, we know. We spent a long time with you bulls.”

  “Yea, you too young to know of the old pacts” said Tworl.

  “Yea, yea, bulls, goblins, ogres, dragons—the old pacts when we all tried to kill the stupid elves and dorfs and humans,” said Jorl. “But who cares about the old pacts now? I care about ale.”

  “And wenches. We defected because of elf girls. Only reason,” said Tworl. All three knocked their mugs together, sending cold amber beer sloshing out onto the bar.

  “Yea I want a nice elf wench!” said Worl.

  “Well that’s your problem Worl, you’re looking for a wench when elves only come as ladies” Scammander replied.

  “And go as wenches. And as wenches go, any wench can go as far as a lady,” Jorl said.

  “I think we all go as wenches,” I said.

  “The difference is spelling,” quipped Scammander.

  “No, I’ve been bespelled by wenches and ladies, and if spelling be the difference, a wench’s spell is a letter longer,” Jorl replied.

  “To follow this argument to the letter is like a letting by the unlettered, and your wenchy words are unlady-like in their letting in of witchy-wenchy sentiments, and I’ve quite spelled out your bewitching wench, which lasted quite less than the spell of any lady,” snapped Scammander.

  “Oh, let me go, Scammander,” whimpered Jorl.

  “Scammander plays at riddles with old drakes, that’s where he learned his words and minstrelsy from,” said Tworl, tilting his head back as he took a drink.

  “Oh yes, Brock Highkeep, legendary human knigh
t, in his fabled golden armor. He slaughtered many of the dragon brood, both egg-bound and great dragons,” slurred a voice from behind the counter of the bar.

  “Killed lots of us too” I said. “He’s about the only one I remember from the tales; they always sang about how he would fight way out from the lines, no shield, no helmet, just his sword and banner and valor.”

  “—and flowing blonde hair,” snickered Scammander.

  “It matched his banner,” laughed Worl.

  I peered over the counter before continuing. “Our lyrics say ‘he cut with his eyes, then with his sword/and, two-sworded, he moves the banner forward,’” I sang in mock minotaur song. “So what ever happened to Brock? Our songs never say exactly how he died.”

  “Pathetically,” said Jorl.

  “Poorly, is more accurate,” said Scammander. “His simple House had accumulated debt to properly send him to war, but not enough to outright ruin him. He sold his fabled armor, sold his legendary blade, and then first labored in a black smithy forging weapons for twerps and fodder he used to command. His countless war wounds and aches thwarted his honest endeavor, so then he worked as a stable hand and mere waiter for two inns that faced each other on opposite sides of the street. One was called Ameria’s Spears and Eagles, and I can’t remember what the other one was called. He pushed humanity’s borders with such ardor that he never sought the love of a girl—rather it was humanity and humanity’s ascent that he was in love with, and it seemed, to the shock of all races, that humanity loved him, and for once was cognizant of some value greater than its merchants, or its contemptible merchant ideal. So in the end, he was alone, consumed by two deleterious, enervating jobs and was tediously unyarned in petty labors and travails.”

  “I wonder which dies first—your humor or your hope,” I said.

  “You’d hear stories shortly after the Campaign of Anguish, between travelers, that they had been waited on by Brock Highkeep, and how unimpressive, stupid, and timid he was, and how the food and ale were terrible. The inns initially advertised that he worked for them, but after a few short months those banners were removed.” Scammander paused to look at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. “Lore claims he cried to death, and that his body was emaciated, and that his skin was grey and soaking wet when they found him out in the alley behind the inn. Too, that the merchants he owed money to snatched the rags off his body and tried to sell them. No one bought them, of course. His parents couldn’t afford to come get the body so it was left to some local council to see that the body was obtained and properly buried. They notoriously forgot, and but for a very vigilant and illustrious dwarf thief, humanity would never have heard another word about Brock Highkeep.”